"In the silence between one heartbeat and the next, where pain turns into echo and fear becomes a whisper, he discovered that some endings are as sweet as they are cruel, and that no truce is greater than the one offered by a shared shadow." —Excerpt from an unpublished manuscript: Inks and Swords.
How did David defeat Goliath? How did Odysseus trick the Cyclops? How did Batman manage to beat Superman? How could a civilized human breach a wall? All these questions had logical answers. When faced with a superior enemy, the only option was to be superior in other aspects.
The use of intelligence, cunning, strategies, appropriate tools, and above all… an immense amount of faith. Those were the weapons you could wield against a superior foe—of course, only applicable if they didn't match you in those other areas.
Brián cracked his neck with a dry snap. He didn't believe these worthless bastards could match him in those fields. After all, you had to be truly stupid to commit such atrocities. His gaze wandered to the shards of ceramic scattered on the floor and then to the massive rectangular mirror. His eyes gleamed with malevolence, and a barely perceptible smile crossed his lips. After all, everyone needed to breathe.
The bubbling sensation—that peculiar strangeness granted by Illumination—began to return with full force, magnified by having been restrained for so long. His senses started to dull and sharpen simultaneously, swayed by euphoria, but he forced himself to stay in control, for his sake and for the sake of the silver-haired girl. If his mind was already sharp, he now felt it tripling in capacity—quite noticeable, given that he started reasoning much faster than before.
His pupils scanned his enemies with surgical coldness. First, Víctor: a guy with dull brown hair who looked like a damn tank. Strength and brutality had to be his thing, no doubt; his body spoke volumes. Then, the blond bastard holding the silver-haired girl against her will. He was the idiot of the group—emotional and impulsive, or so Brián's reasoning told him. Lastly, the sociopath: leader and puppeteer. A bastard with dark blue hair and matching eyes. If Brián wasn't mistaken, this one possessed the Control Trait. The reason? Simple… a guy like that wouldn't trust anyone else with such a Trait, let alone stay close to them.
"I'm guessing your ability consists of two or more components," Brián said calmly, measuring each word to buy time. "The first, a fundamental requirement: you need someone to answer a question directly and simply." He silently thanked himself for wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt that morning. Now covered in dirt and grime, it would serve another purpose. Without further ado, he pulled it off, remaining in a simple dark t-shirt.
Ronan smiled, intrigued by the mint-green-haired boy. That's why Brián was still conscious—because it wasn't every day you found someone who could match you in your strongest aspect: intelligence. "As I see it, we're on a chessboard with only two pieces: two queens. The first to take the other wins," Ronan declared arrogantly, clasping his hands behind his back. He wouldn't make the first move; he would leave that honor to his opponent.
"Your win conditions are simple: get the hostage out of our hands and into the hallway, or survive long enough for the second class period to begin. But I doubt you'll go for the latter."
Upon hearing that load of crap, Brián merely nodded. He was no longer willing to speak to him directly, suspecting that Ronan might not need additional conditions to activate his ability and was merely concealing it. Why? Who knew—reasoning with such crazy people was beyond his comprehension.
"I still don't know the other guy's name," Brián continued as he crouched down. He picked up a few shards of ceramic from the floor and slipped them into his pocket. Then, with precise movements, he tied the long-sleeved shirt around his waist. "The one with the hideous face who can't stop thinking with the head below because he clearly can't get female attention any other way."
As expected, his disdainful comments enraged the blond bastard, who also looked like another mountain of muscle, leaving Ronan as the only one with a compact build. The expression on the face of the one holding the silver-haired girl became more grotesque than ever. Veins of anger bulged across his forehead, and he was on the verge of releasing his captive to charge at Brián and punch him.
And it would have happened if not for the sociopath's intervention. Extending his arm, he stopped the blond brute. His eyes filled with something inscrutable.
"Looks like you've got your dog well-trained, leash and all," Brián remarked, trying to bait him. Too bad it wasn't possible thanks to the damn sociopath's presence.
"It seems I'm not as good as you at your own game. I lose my temper too quickly, and dealing with such miserable people makes me sick." Brián yawned at the end of his comment, as if the entire situation was nothing more than a minor distraction. He was exhausted, but he knew sleep was out of the question under these circumstances. He crouched again, picking up the last ceramic shards scattered on the floor. Then, his eyes caught sight of the light switch, a practical target, just the size of his open palm. An idea began to form fully as he toyed with the final shard in his hands. He straightened up, his relaxed posture masking the electric tension taking hold of him.
The twenty seconds he spent in this process were enough to exhaust one of his opponents' patience. With a disdainful sneer, he felt his free hand crush the ceramic fragments in his pocket, reducing them to powder. Once again, Brián had to marvel at what inhuman strength could achieve in such a simple act.
The air grew heavier as a deep voice laced with sarcasm broke the silence. "Let's end this nonsense. I don't have all day," growled Víctor, the group's juggernaut. He didn't bother with Ronan's mind games; he was there out of convenience, thanks to Ronan's family ties with the city's elite nobility. Without preamble, his body moved. In the blink of an eye, he exceeded 500 km/h, launching a fist the size of a human head toward the torso of the mint-green-haired boy.
It was an impressive speed, but unfortunately for Víctor, he wasn't aware of his opponent's Trait—or how Brián had dodged the projectile Ronan had previously launched. In fact, Brián had anticipated the movement, his eyes picking up the tension in the giant's muscles, that moment of preparation before impact that betrayed him. He even threw the ceramic shard before Víctor began his charge. The fragment cut through the air, traveling at a speed rivaling sound, and hit the light switch just as Víctor's fist neared its target.
Midway through Víctor's attack, the lights went out. Of course, Brián didn't expect much from this maneuver. With the inhuman capabilities his body already displayed, it wasn't hard for him to see in the dark, and if this applied to him, it likely did to the others. It was more a factor of surprise and a slight boost to his chances.
His body moved in perfect synchronization with his throw. His free hand reached into his pocket, grabbing the powdered ceramic he had crushed. As Víctor came close enough, Brián hurled it directly at his opponent's eyes and mouth. The powder infiltrated, momentarily blinding him and forcing a guttural cough.
All of this unfolded in the span of a blink. Brián dodged Víctor's blow by mere centimeters and, taking advantage of the opening, positioned himself on the giant's right flank near the massive mirror. Dropping to one knee, he felt the tingle coursing through his left arm. His fist clenched tightly, and he struck directly at Víctor's groin—a blow as precise as it was brutal. Even the angriest bull would pause for a moment if its crown jewels were hit.
Víctor's scream was deafening, but his body reacted with instinctive brutality before he could succumb to the pain. Brian, always a step ahead, reached into his pocket again and threw another handful of dust, forcing the giant to swallow it as he struggled to catch his breath. Every second gained was crucial. His reflexes and ability to anticipate were the only tools tipping the scales against such an overwhelming opponent.
But Víctor was a tank for a reason. Amid coughs and growls, he regained his composure with alarming speed. His arm, as massive as his torso, swung toward Brián with devastating force. All Brián could do in response was widen his eyes slightly. This time, the attack was too fast for him to react.
The impact slammed into his chest, sending him flying like a rag doll. He spat blood into the air as his body collided with the mirror, shattering it into an explosion of fragments.
Pain coursed through his neck and back as he felt the glass slice into his skin. Instinctively, his arms shot up into a guard, ready to shield him from the next attack—unfortunately, a second too late. His muscles trembled, not just from the pain but from the terrifying speed of his opponent.
He spat more clots of blood as his body remained embedded in the shattered remains of the mirror. Each heartbeat sent waves of searing agony through his chest and back, threatening to drag him into unconsciousness.
"Son of a bitch... that hurt," Víctor growled, his voice rough and broken. His eyes blinked rapidly, trying to soothe the burning and clear his vision, but the pain only grew worse. Even so, he refused to buckle, standing firm in a posture that defied his own condition.
Brián collapsed from his elevated position. His body fell like a discarded ragdoll against the sinks, hitting them with a dull, hollow thud. He landed awkwardly, a shadow obscuring his face, but a faint smile crept across his lips. A thin crimson thread escaped the corner of his mouth—his ribs might have been fractured, but his eyes... his eyes burned with a resolution that not even pain could extinguish.
Behind his back, his hand began to crush a shard of glass with furious determination. The pressure he exerted caused it to slice into his flesh, embedding tiny fragments into his skin. The burning sting only fueled his resolve. With his other hand, he untied the long-sleeved shirt from his waist, preparing it as an improvised mask.
Víctor didn't give him more time. The moment his vision began to return, he launched another charge—quick and brutal. Brián barely managed to cover his face with the shirt, and in a desperate motion, scattered blood and crushed glass toward the giant. It was enough to hinder Víctor, but not enough to stop the impact. The massive fist connected directly with the left side of Brián's head, dragging him violently across the sinks and destroying each faucet along the way.
Brián wasn't skilled in fighting, but he understood one crucial thing: the point of a fight was to ensure the other guy came out worse than you.
Water began gushing from the broken pipes, soaking the floor and filling the room with the sound of an artificial waterfall. Amid the chaos, he thought he heard a faint, worried cry—a woman's voice—but his head was spinning. His blurred vision and the deafening ringing in his left ear combined with the searing pain that spread through every fiber of his being. A warm droplet slid from his ear, and he didn't need to look to know it wasn't water.
Barely, he managed to sit up. The burning from his glass-filled hand was unbearable, but he clung to that pain to stay conscious.
"Arrrgghhh!" Víctor's roar echoed in the bathroom, filled with fury and desperation.
"What the hell did you do to me? I can't open my eyes, bastard!" Blood poured from his swollen eyelids as the giant swung blindly, each blow creating gusts of wind that distorted the air and shook the room's foundation.
"I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch! Where are you?" Víctor kept shouting, trying to force his eyes open, but it was impossible. Blood streamed from them, and the more he screamed, the deeper the agony embedded itself in his throat.
The synergy of two moving figures created a remarkable effect. And maybe Brián's glass-crushing hadn't been as thorough, leaving behind sharp, troublesome shards.
A macabre smile, full of bloodied teeth, spread across Brián's face. As he'd said before: the point of fighting was to make sure the other guy came out worse.
Víctor, blinded by pain, continued flailing around, each strike sinking walls and leaving craters in the tiles. But Brián had lost interest in him. Seizing the confusion, his trembling, bloodied hand full of glass fragments reached for a piece of broken faucet. Its jagged edge seemed tailor-made for one purpose. The cold steel renewed his determination, and the water cascading around him filled him with a savage conviction.
Thanks to the unintended boost from Víctor's blow, he ended up close to another of those bastards. Limping, staggering, and with blurred vision, he slid out of the wreckage of the sinks, a new target in mind. His rapid steps carried him straight toward the blond brute—the one still holding the silver-haired girl captive.
The man didn't see the shift in strategy coming. Confident in his physical superiority, he wasn't prepared for the explosion of speed and fury that followed. Brián hurled himself forward with everything he had, every ounce of strength and accumulated rage.
"Aaaarrggh!". The scream that filled the bathroom was far more disturbing than Víctor's. It came from the blond bastard, who, without warning, found himself on the receiving end of Brián's merciless precision. In one swift, unwavering motion, Brián positioned himself on the man's left flank and, with surgical accuracy, drove the sharp end of the faucet straight into his left eye. Blood spurted as the man convulsed, his body wracked with spasms of sheer horror. Determination burned brightly on Brián's bloodied face, his resolve unshaken despite the cost.
The eyeball burst like an overripe fruit under the impact, releasing a spray of vitreous fluid mixed with blood that splattered onto the silver-haired girl's hair. She gasped, frozen, trapped between terror and confusion. Everything was happening too fast—so fast her mind struggled to process the violence unfolding before her.
Brián, on the other hand, had no time for hesitation or doubt. His enemies outmatched him physically—overwhelmingly so—maybe twenty to one. But they weren't goddamn Superman, able to stop bullets with their eyeballs; they were still mortal, still vulnerable. He wasn't about to wait for them to recover. He wasn't that stupid. His body was already in motion, like a well-oiled machine programmed to eliminate anything in its path.
With a quick jerk, he ripped the faucet shard out of the bastard's eye socket. Without a moment's pause, he raised it again, ready to plunge it into the other eye. But he underestimated the blond's desperation. In a cowardly move, the bastard hurled the girl at him with the force of a human battering ram.
Brián had to change his trajectory mid-motion to catch her. The impact was brutal. The girl crashed into his chest, sending him staggering back several steps as a burst of pain shot through his ribs like an electric shock.
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His reflexes were already triggering the next move. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out one of the stones he'd kept. Without a second thought, he hurled it with all his might. The stone flew like a projectile, striking the blond squarely on the forehead with a dull thud. It didn't bring him down, but it was enough to disorient him, buying Brián another precious opportunity to strike.
He placed the girl behind him with a swift motion and charged at his enemy again. The jagged piece of faucet was mere millimeters away from piercing the blond's remaining eye—a single eye now filled with traces of desperation. And that's when everything changed.
A burst of searing heat erupted between them. The blond's body ignited like a human torch, flames engulfing him in an instant. The wave of heat struck Brián with such intensity that his arm caught fire within seconds. His skin bubbled and melted, the excruciating pain hammering at his nervous system. But he didn't stop—not for the fear that began to creep into him, not for the unbearable agony.
As he'd said before: the only good thing about fighting was making sure the other guy came out worse.
He didn't falter. Fueled by adrenaline and sheer determination, he shoved the faucet shard forward with all his might. The jagged tip drove into the blond's remaining eye, burying itself deep.
"Aaaarrgh!" The blond's scream echoed through the bathroom, a symphony of agony. But Brián didn't stick around to savor it—he didn't give a damn. He left the shard where it was, its new "resting place," and staggered back.
His right arm hung uselessly at his side, the skin burned down to the bone in places, the exposed nerves completely numb. The burns stretched all the way to his shoulder, and though the pain was constant, it wasn't enough to stop him anymore.
With a crooked smile, Brián spat another clot of blood onto the floor. If that had been a spell, then it was complete garbage because it clearly hadn't done its job. "What's the matter? Brave enough to bully a little girl, but you can't handle a bit of pain? Where the hell's your solidarity? We've got someone blind here, so why not pitch in too? You know... like when someone with cancer goes to a barber, and the barber shaves their head too."
His words were delirious nonsense; he didn't give a damn. Pain consumed every part of his body except for his useless arm. Everything was blurry, and the ringing in his ear drilled mercilessly into his brain. His voice echoed through the bathroom, mixing with the sound of water still pouring from the broken pipes.
A slow clap cut through the tension.
"Bravo... bravo," said a deep, mocking voice.
In the darkest corner of the bathroom, Ronan watched the scene with a broad smile, almost ecstatic.
"You're incredible. No, scratch that—you're perfect."
Brián ignored the weirdo fetishist entirely. His attention was on the silver-haired girl trembling behind him.
"Listen," he said, his tone softer but firm, "whatever you do, never respond to that disgusting guy. If you do, your freedom might not stay yours."
"Come on now, you're making me out to be the villain of this story," Ronan chimed in with mock innocence. His smile remained, pleased as if he'd just found the perfect toy.
The silver-haired girl, meanwhile, was visibly distraught, her anxiety written all over her pale face. The boy's words carried an unmistakable weight of concern for her safety, layered with his own pain and a faint trace of fear—not for himself, but for her, for some inexplicable reason.
Ronan's gaze darkened momentarily as he was interrupted by the noise. His so-called "friends" couldn't shut up for even a second. Their screams and howls grated on him, like headless chickens running amok.
"How annoying," he muttered, the mask of charm slipping for a fleeting moment. A chilling apathy surfaced, sharp and transient, like a dagger in the dark.
Before Brián could react, the sociopath moved.
In a single instant, the two lackeys were down. One was embedded into the floor like a fallen statue, while the other was plastered to the wall, leaving a crater behind. The sound of the impacts followed a second later, as if time itself had to catch up with Ronan's movements.
"Much better, don't you think?" Ronan's voice was eerily calm, as if he'd just ordered off a menu. "They were a bit noisy, weren't they? Even you aren't this melodramatic. Makes me look bad. Sorry about that—my companions didn't quite live up to expectations."
Brián could only sigh; he hadn't even seen the bastard move. He knew it—those other clowns didn't even come close to this deranged son of a bitch.
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The author speaking here.
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